There's a Moon Out Tonight
by mapplepie
Summary: John and Mary's neighbours were boring and bland. Sherlock couldn't be bothered with any of them... until the young lady one floor down made herself known - a Ms. Luna Lovegood. How curious.


Mrs. Bunnette, who lived in the flat to the right of John's, was (single. Twice divorced. A mother of two estranged boys, both living with their father. Chronically depressed; took up community knitting to connect with her peers) boring. Mr and Mrs Finn, who lived in the flat to the left of John's, were (happily married for thirty-so years. Prone to spoiling their grandchildren rotten every Christmas when the family came around. Avid ballroom dancers to combat Alzheimer's) boring.

The entirely of the floor were, frankly, equal disappointments, because John had atrocious tastes when it came to residential neighbours.

Sherlock had nearly given up hope finding anything remotely interesting — that was, until he unintentionally turned his gaze one floor down.

Immediately below, in fact.

It was late at night. At the time, Sherlock had been on the fire escape so typical to these old buildings, in the middle of testing the ease in which someone could break and enter without anyone the wiser.

It'd been simple to leap onto the pulldown ladder and shimmy up to John's window. Lounging on the railing, Sherlock was contemplating Mary's reaction if he forcefully pried open their window, when a soft voice carried up from below.

"I don't believe there's a door on this side," it said, female, and deceptively casual. It wasn't false to say she sounded less anxious at the sight of Sherlock breaking in than the norm. There'd been no flurried attempts to contact the authorities, nor, god forbid, shrilled shrieks of terror. Rather, she was brimmed with honest curiosity. "Is it a secret entrance?"

Sherlock glanced over.

Wide silver orbs peered back at him, reflecting the stars from the sky. The young lady was sat dangling over the ledge of her window, fingers hooked on the sill, leaning so dangerously backwards on the laminated frame that a gust could seemingly topple her over. Long blonde hair, almost silver from the moonlight, brushed close to the ground.

Sherlock curled his lip into a disarming smile, "Oh no. I forgot my keys. How silly of me."

The woman blinked wordlessly, and tilted her head. "Should I call the landlord?" she asked helpfully.

A busybody, how irritating. The pleasant expression on Sherlock's face was entirely forced. "Oh, don't bother." He paused. "... please," he added, remarkably belated, though the woman mentioned nothing about it. "It would be embarrassing."

A melodic hum drifted with the wind. "Hmm, I supposed it might be, to be caught breaking into another's flat," the woman said consideringly.

Sherlock swung to face her, finally, giving up the hesitant glances of the shy, embarrassed act he'd been trying to portray. "What makes you assume this isn't my flat?" he countered sharply.

The woman was unfazed by his tone. She swept a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear, fiddling with the polished branch she'd tucked there. It looked cut, polished, and waxed so much more meticulously than one would expect for something so useless. But what did Sherlock know, or care, about female aesthetics and their odd choice in accessories?

"Well," she said conversationally, "you see, you don't make a very convincing John or Mary Watson."

"Of course," Sherlock scoffed. Of course John would go around greeting the neighbours. John always ruined his fun.

She squinted into the darkness, hand absentmindedly pulling out the branch from behind her ears. It tapped rhythmically against her lip. "Unless, I suppose, you're in disguise?"

How she expected John or Mary, five feet seven and four, respectively, to suddenly acquire the three to six inches to match Sherlock's stature, Sherlock didn't know. Nevermind the loss of body mass.

People were such fools.

Yet in contrast to her vapid words, she was guarded and alert, unlike the dullness found in those who subscribed to such impossible illusions.

It was study in dichotomy how the dreamy expression fixed on her face made her seem as though she saw both everything and nothing of importance at the same time.

"But you're not, are you?" Her gaze swept over him, lingering above his head. "Have you gotten lost? That's odd, there doesn't appear to be a wrackspurt infestation."

"Wrackspurt infestation," Sherlock repeated.

"Why else would you claim to be someone you're not?" she said as though she'd never heard of theft and crimes.

"Why indeed?" Sherlock uttered blandly. Or perhaps he was giving her unwarranted praise.

Sherlock turned away.

John could deal with the scuffed window lock, Sherlock decided abruptly. More specifically, John could deal with Mary at the sight of the scuffed window lock. She was his responsibility.

Before John got married, Sherlock never had to bother with annoyances like consideration and pleasantries. How droll.

"There are typically larger than normal infestations in buildings like these," the woman continued guilelessly from one floor down.

Sherlock continued to ignore her.

Meanwhile, from within John's flat, the sounds of approaching footsteps echoed into existence.

Lights flickered on before John suddenly emerged. He had clearly been roused from sleep, wrapped in a robe, but as expected from the soldier, a gun was clenched tightly in his hand, steady as ever.

John's tense form released the moment he spotted Sherlock sat outside his window. He clambered forward to unlock it, putting away his gun.

"Christ, Sherlock! I thought you were a burglar. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" he demanded, shoving the window open.

"Breaking in, obviously," Sherlock said.

John heaved a heavy sigh. With an all-suffering look, he pressed, "But _why?"_ and then thought better of it, well aware of the oddness of Sherlock Holmes. "Nevermind. Next time just knock on the front door like a normal bloke, please? Or heck, give us a ring. You'll give Mary a heart attack, lurking around outside in the dark. Is someone with you? I thought I heard voices."

Sherlock gave an indiscernible hum. John rolled his eyes and leaned out the window.

Luna spotted John before he did.

"Hello John, " the woman called up.

John startled. "Oh, hello Luna," John replied, shocked reined by instinctual manners and learned damage control where Sherlock was concerned. "I hope Sherlock hasn't been giving you trouble."

"Oh no, we had a pleasant conversation about disguising as you."

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the sill of John's window, but made no effort to enter. He studied the young lady, Luna, as she conversed with John, struck by the possibility that she'd called out to him and talked about utter nonsense all to stall his illegal actions until John was aware.

It _would _explain her blase attitude - to lower his guard -, except there were too many assumptions in that theory.

"Why were _you_ leaning out your window in the the middle of the night?" Sherlock questioned Luna, cutting off the pointless small-talk.

Her hand jolted reflexively, pushing aside something within her flat. "Well, I find it a convenient way to leave. Though I wouldn't mind sharing the route with you," Luna said cheerily, despite her indiscreet actions.

Sherlock was certain he spied a broomstick, except, logically there was no reason for her to carry a broomstick out onto the fire escape, nor hide it from his sight like it was some unspeakable secret.

John, unobservant as ever, noticed nothing. "You don't have to humour him, Luna. I'm sorry Sherlock kept you up."

"I can't complain. I'm keeping you up as well," Luna replied apologetically. She offered the two of them a disarming smile before continuing, retreating from their sights. "I suppose I should head on to bed myself. Goodnight John, goodnight Sherlock."

"Of course. Goodnight," John returned, slipping his head back through his window.

Sherlock glowered. How did John not see she was deliberately diverting their attention? He pulled away, ready to slip down the stairwell to catch Luna from fleeing, only for John to grab him by the arm.

"Christ, you can interrogate the poor girl at a proper hour in the morning, alright, Sherlock?" John said exasperatedly.

Sherlock twisted in his hold. He craned his neck over the metal railings, honing down to where the young lady had been. Luna's window was shut, blinds drawn. Sherlock had half the mind to head down to pick _her _lock instead.

"Sherlock…" John said warningly.

Mary shuffled out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed, pink fluffy slippers on her feet. "What's going on, John? Was it Sherlock at the window?" she asked, before spotting his form. She smiled sleepily at him. "Joining us for the night, dear? 'Fraid you'll have to make do with the couch."

Without waiting for an answer, she pulled out spare blankets from the closet. John tapped his foot impatiently, arms crossed.

Sherlock sighed and relented.

He crawled through the window and made to perched delicately on the edge of the Watson's couch.

John locked up the window behind him.

"Goodnight Sherlock," John said. He leveled his ex-flatmate with a stern look before retreating back into the bedroom with his wife. "You better stay on that couch until sunrise, or so help me god," he muttered under his breath, as though he expected Sherlock to sneak out the moment he left their sight.

Mary let out a yawn. "Goodnight dear."

"Goodnight," Sherlock replied sulkily.

Flopped down on the couch, Sherlock closed his eyes to slip off into his mind palace. As such, he only vaguely registered the muffled crack that echoed from somewhere within the building.

Ms. Luna Lovegood, who lived in the flat directly below John's, was (single. Curious by nature. Acclimatised to dangerous situations. Hiding unspoken secrets behind that soft smile and seemingly innocent wide eyes of hers) interesting.

Sherlock's boredom was appeased.

* * *

_A/N:_ _This was a fic that I'd originally planned to be multichaptered, but lost interest in and left to rot in my unfinished fic folder. I'd had plans for the floor below John's to be some sort of hidden floor for wizarding tenants that muggles couldn't get to by lift or stairs (and they'd not realise anything wrong with it. But of course there'd be Sherlock who knows _something_ is odd, but he can't put his finger on it for the longest time). I had plans about Harry living on that hidden floor too. Alas, I lost interest. Now you get this modified chapter one that is now a one-shot. Enjoy?_


End file.
